


Soldier's Heart

by prefertheconsultingdetective



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Jewish Steve Rogers, M/M, References to Depression, Stucky Big Bang 2016, Underage - Freeform, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:06:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prefertheconsultingdetective/pseuds/prefertheconsultingdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like this; James Barnes went to war when he was 21 and came back when he was 24. He feels like he's left everything he had in the desert of Kandahar, but maybe there are things that you can discover all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Anatomy of Melancholy

**Author's Note:**

> aaalright! I've been working on this fic since May (which isn't even that long) and I'm still not finished, but I just have to get it out/ start posting it or I'll turn crazy or something.  
> This is a Stucky Big Bang fic and the deadline is the end of August, which I'm determined to make. So far I've written 7k that are beta-ed, I think I'll need another 5-7k to finish this, so I can't promise regular updates, but sometimes a little pressure does wonders to my writing! 
> 
> This comes with some notes,  
> first - this is an underage fic, because in this Steve is 17 and Bucky is 24. I think I'm handling it with care but if this is not your thing, please don't read it, especially if its more than just a squick.  
> Bucky is a war vet and deals with depression and PTSD, I'm not an expert in that matter, but I've done a lot of research and I hope I've gotten it right!  
> this deals with Bucky remembering the war, having panic attacks and breakdowns, there's nothing too graphic, but just so you guys know  
> This is definitely a Stucky fic, but it's focusses on Bucky a lot, especially in the first half! But don't worry, Stevie will come!
> 
>  
> 
> This is so very close to my heart and big thanks go out to my beta thesummersoldier who shares my name and is generally awesome! And of course, to my all time fav ineedthislikeaholeinthehead for reading over this, too, giving suggestions and bringing me back on track when I lost my plot a bit!

_ "but in my heart _

_ there's a radio silence going on" _

James Blake - Radio Silence

 

 

It's like this; James Barnes went to war when he was 21.

 

_ * _

 

People come home from war, seeking peace. Or that's what they get told.

 

"Find yourself some peace, soldier. Go home and get some rest."

 

Instead they’re starting another fight altogether.

 

*

 

When James comes home from Afghanistan, he thinks that this must be worse.

  
  


New York is loud and busy, the airport crowded and complex. His big duffel bag is heavy and unwieldy, his uniform and thick boots make him stand out like a sore thumb between everyone else. People returning from holidays or business trips, tourists arriving for adventures in the Big Apple, and everyone seems to be greeted by loved ones.

 

James leaves the airport through glass doors and the crisp air hits him like a slap in the face. He gets shoved aside by a big guy that makes way for his family and James shirks away. He doesn't do well with being touched. Even if it's only an elbow in his side.

 

James sets down his bag and fishes a pack of cigarette out of his pocket. He holds it with his right hand, opens the lid with his forefinger and brings it to his mouth to get one out. He's still not using his left arm much, especially not for delicate things like grabbing a paper box or holding a cigarette between his fingers.

 

He gets out his lighter and uses his left hand to shield the flame against the wind, when it's not working James turns around so he's facing the wall and ducks his head to get flame and cigarette further away from anything that could interfere.

 

He clicks the lighter once, twice, time passes, it's only seconds, but he's not seeing what's going on behind his back; he can hear the people walking behind him and the sound of cars and engines running and everything melts together into a giant ache at the back of his skull, when finally the cigarette starts to glow. He takes a drag and turns around and when he leans back against the wall, being able to see what's going on, his heart hammers in his chest.

 

He breathes in and out slowly before taking another drag.

 

James thinks he can feel the smoke curling in his lungs and when he breathes out again, he turns his head up to watch it rise up into the night sky. He thinks about the difference between the sky in Afghanistan and America.

 

There's a periodical stream of people coming out of the doors of the airport. Families and little groups, a mother aching as she pushes a heavy looking cart that's stacked with suitcases, desperately trying not to lose sight of her two kids that are running ahead. Men in suits with matching ties, all of them speaking in their phones, their voices firm and just the right kind of stressed to let everyone know that they're busy and very important.

 

James takes another drag and looks away again. He's spent the last couple of years with a lot of people and yet it's the first time that he feels like he's surrounded by active human life again.

 

He smokes his cigarette to the filter, stomps it out with the heel of his heavy boot and then picks up his duffel again to find a taxi.

 

*

 

He gets out at some street in Dumbo when he sees the flashy sign of a random Hotel.

Before he checks in he buys a card for his phone at a corner store and a Mountain Dew.

 

James doesn’t really know who to call, but he thinks it’s important to at least be able to make a call if he wants to. 

Maybe it's about possibilities and not about actions.

 

He remembers therapists telling him about the importance of communication and maybe this is taking a step into the right direction.

 

There are letters in his bag, written by his sister, blue ink on white paper, Rebecca telling him about how their mother died and where she’s buried.  _ She’s in Brooklyn, Jamie, she’s still home.  _

 

She always asked him how he was, why he didn’t call anymore and ending with  _  I miss you, please come home! _

 

There's a number in there too. The first one he'll save in his phone now. The first number he'll have, but won't call.

 

The duffel bag on his shoulder is heavy, his arm hurts and the other arm isn't even his. He thinks the shop owner looks at him weird, his thick eyebrows drawn together and his blond hair hanging in his eyes. James feels trapped after only 2 minutes.

 

When he leaves the store he sets down his bag, unscrews the bottle with his left hand, because that's something he practiced a lot in physical therapy and drinks half of the bottle in big fast gulps. The thick sweet taste lays heavy on his tongue and washes away the stale taste in his mouth.

 

James buys himself dinner at McDonalds and checks into the hotel with the paper bag in his right hand.

 

He shoves down two hamburgers and a bag of fries when he's in his room.

 

He doesn't taste much. He leaves the ketchup unopened and throws the wadded paper through the room in direction of the trash bin. He misses, but doesn’t get up to pick it up.

 

He gets out of his jacket and boots and lays down on the bed. There's bone deep fatigue pulling on James' mind, but he can’t close his eyes without thinking of sun and fire and the clogging smell of burned flesh. He looks at the ceiling for hours. Watches the light from the street that casts moving shadows. At 4 in the morning he gets up to take a shower.

 

He cries under the spray where the water washes away his tears.

 

He dresses in jeans and layers two sweaters over a t-shirt. He hides the difference of his hands under gloves.

 

He feels bared without his uniform, like a warrior without his shield. It's a pathetic metaphor, because James has been a soldier, but he's never been a warrior.

  
  


He leaves the hotel, goes back to the corner shop with the grumpy owner, and buys a coffee.

 

James remembers that he used to dislike coffee, didn't drink it for a long time. He remembers Rebecca practically living off coffee when she was at college.

 

He remembers starting to drink it when he got into military training, because even if you're still in training you got to be awake, at 5 in the morning or else you'll get your ass kicked.

 

He drank it on tour, too, hell, probably drank twice his bodyweight, cheapskate filter coffee in plastic cups or out of thermos. This coffee probably tastes just as bad, but everything is different in Afghanistan.

 

The man at the check out looks even more grumpy today and much more tired as well. There are heavy bags under his eyes. He nods at every customer as if to establish the shared experience of early mornings. Everyone nods back, except James.

 

Tiredness and wakefulness, feeling energetic or lazy, some part of his brain remembers that, those delicate and exact descriptions of feelings and moods and conditions, but now there's only numb nothingness filling him, weighing down his feet and mind and heart.

 

James puts three packs of sugar into his coffee and drinks it while he walks in direction of the graveyard.

He briefly thinks about taking the subway but the thought of sharing so little space with so many people doesn't sound too appealing.

 

The air is crisp and cold, he finishes his coffee, throws the cup into the nearest bin and tucks his hands into his pockets.

 

The movement makes the metal plates of his left arm shift and whirr. He thinks he can hear it even under the thickness of his clothes and between the sounds of the city around him waking up and getting into motions. James thinks it's something he'll always be able to make out.

  
  


He goes to visit his mother's grave.

 

The gravestone is gray and simple, the plain text only says her name, date of birth and death. He thinks that Rebecca must have send him a picture via email once, but that had been around the time that he had been one year on tour. He had stopped checking his inbox somewhere around that time. 

 

Now he wonders if other people come here and walk past his mother's grave thinking that no one cared for Winifred Barnes.

 

He decides to bring flowers the next time he's here. Maybe something colorful and happy, something bright between the depressing line of gray gravestones. It's something that people do, he decides. Happy people. Normal people. People who miss their deceased.

 

He smokes through half a pack of cigarettes and tries to cry, then he pulls off his left glove and picks up the cigarette buds.

*

When he's on his way back to his hotel, James thinks of Rebecca.

 

James hasn't seen his sister since enlisting.

 

He remembers that in the beginning she's been there, when he called their mother, they didn't speak much, but he knows that she's been there.

 

"Becky says hi," his mother told him and somehow that had been enough.

 

James knows he should call her, let her know he's back and maybe meet up, tell her about his injuries and how he's healed and ready to start a new life.

 

It's what she wants to hear. It's also what he wants to tell her, but he's never been good with lying to his big sister.

 

For a brief moment he's glad that their mother is dead. It's a shameful thought.He's glad she doesn't have to see him like that.

 

Her youngest son who went away, still green and half a child, back home now, crippled and hurt and afraid.

 

It's a relief that she doesn't have to know.

 

He doesn't want Rebecca to know either, so he doesn't call her.

 

*

 

James spends the next week doing nothing.

 

He lays on the lumpy hotel mattress trying to get used to the feeling of a soft bed. He's been in the hospital in Afghanistan, but he doesn't remember much of that because they've been pumping him full with all kinds of meds.

He still takes some of them. Pain killers, anxiety medication, stuff for his arm and there's a big box of sleeping pills, too, which he doesn't take.

 

It's not because he can sleep on his own, no, but somehow admitting that he needs medication to fall asleep is too much.

 

James is not in denial. Not really, he knows that he's a mess, but everyone who leaves the army is hurt in some way – inside or outside, and that's – okay, normal, something you sign up for, maybe. But there's something so basic about sleeping, that admitting that it's now something you cannot do anymore – feels huge.

 

Someday in the second week James starts thinking about what he should do now.

 

Not contemplating possibilities, but rather; anxiously awaiting responsibilities and duties.

 

And James knows what he should do; he should start looking for a job, he should get a therapist, he should start making calls to his sister or his old friends. He should get his life back.

 

He knows what he should do, but he doesn't know what he wants to do.

 

People come home and try to pick up where they left off, go back to normalcy, but the truth is that some things can't be picked up and if you forget what normal feels like you cannot get it back.

  
  


James is living in his hotel room nearly 24/7, he goes out for short walks sometimes, when he feels like the walls are closing in on him. He goes to get food or orders room service and the television is always on, because he cannot stand the silence, but at the lowest volume, because he can't bear loud sounds either.

 

He's not sleeping. The bed too soft, the voices and sounds from the street too loud and the light from outside too bright.

 

He takes naps sometimes when his exhaustion takes over and tiredness swallows him whole.

 

He wakes, drenched in sweat, feeling sand between his fingers, on his skin, and in his mouth.

His left shoulder itches and hurts where it turns into metal or where metal turns into skin and he hangs a towel over the bathroom mirror so he doesn't have to see himself.

  
  


James tries to remember. What was life like? Before this, before war, before he went away and got back - hurt and stripped bare of everything.   
  


He feels like everything has been taken from him and now there's nothing left, but the empty shallow shell of his body. Wrecked and broken.   
  


*

It's like this; James Barnes went to war when he was 21 and came back when he was 24. He feels like he's left everything he had in the desert of Kandahar.


	2. A Shallow Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the kudos, bookmarks and comments!  
> big thanks to my beta and all my friends who are constantly pressured into reading over this :D
> 
> this is another sad chapter about bucky, but i promise there'll be steve eventually and maybe some happiness, too

_»But his mind didn't have a safety and there was no way to shut it off_. _«_

\- PREPARATION FOR THE NEXT LIFE, Atticus Lish

 

 

He has a phone number and a name, a contact, Sam Wilson, a guy who works with veterans, whatever that means.

He comes highly recommended.   
  


James knows that he should call him. Go to a meeting or a group session or whatever that sort of thing is called. He's not doing well so far and it doesn't seem like thing will get better soon. There's a cloud of darkness around him and he cannot get out.

 

He doesn't call.

 

*

 

The time passes and James stays at the hotel. He knows he should at least find another place to stay, but there would be so much effort involved. So he just stays here.

 

He doesn't worry about money, if you just shoot enough 'enemies' and do your patriotic duty and get bombed up in the end – then there's a lot of money involved to pay you back. See, he even got a big shiny metal arm, just because he killed enough people. Because he killed the right ones, too. The ones that get swept under the rug, the ones no one really knows about. You get a hell of a lot of money for that.

 

*

 

He dreams of them sometimes. Faces and voices, all the moments when the tunnel vision kicks in and makes everything go quiet except your heartbeat. He dreams of the mother and son he shot, dreams about their red blood on the sandy pavement. He dreams about the sun shining on his back, sweat pooling on his skin and dripping down his neck. He dreams about hours and hours of just laying on rooftops and in abandoned buildings, watching everything through the tiny circle of black metal and glass.

 

He wakes up crying and watches the wall for hours or he goes out and walks the street up and down, smoking through package after package of cigarettes, crushing the finished cigarette buds between his metal fingers. 

 

*

 

When March turns into April, James thinks that he is going to be alone for a long time. Maybe forever. He honestly has no idea if that's a good or a bad thing, that's how far gone he is.

 

He's wandered through nearly every Brooklyn street by now, he's visited his mother’s grave two more times, not because he feels more now, just because it's something to do. Walking there, buying flowers, laying them down and staring contemplatively at stone and earth. He wants it to open and swallow him up.

 

Because it should be him under the earth.

 

*

 

The thing is, he's not alone.

Because he meets Natasha six weeks after he's come home and from the second he sees the way she looks at him, he knows she's not going to let him go again.

 

*

“ Bucky”, someone says and the thing is – James nearly forgot about that. Bucky. The way people used to call him that. A nickname, short for Buchanan, because that’s ridiculous and James sounds stiff and boring and James Buchanan Barnes had always been cheeky and loud and obscene. He's James now, he ducks his head and breathes, -one two three-, before he turns around.

 

It's the middle of the day, he's on some loud Brooklyn street, where delis and coffee shops and diners are pressed together and when he turns around there's a petite red haired woman standing in front of him and because she looks like a financial advisor or something, it takes him a minute to recognize her.

 

It's Natasha Romanoff, his childhood sweetheart and worst nightmare, best friend and biggest enemy, she's the most frightening person on earth, though she also has the hugest heart, but she'd rather get stabbed with a knife than admit that.

 

James' instant reaction is to run away, his second is to hug the hell out of Natasha, but all he does is gape at her.

 

“ Umm,” he says and then she comes a step closer and draws her eyebrows together and narrows her eyes. And James knows that look and he knows he's lost already.

 

“ When did you get back??” she asks. And because she knows him; “Does Becca know?”

 

“ Six weeks ago,” he says and his voice is hoarse and feels weirdly rusty, it's the first time he's spoken in two days, he realizes. “No.” he adds after a moment.

 

“ Where are you staying?” she continues and he's glad she doesn't ask why he isn't talking to his sister.

He gives her the name of the hotel and shrugs.

 

“ Okay,” she says and her voice still sounds exactly like it did 3 years ago. “You're going to come home with me,” she decides, and that's that.

 

*

 

The thing with Natasha is that she's incredibly strong. In every sense of the word. James doesn't ever want to fight against her, and he doesn't want to argue with her. He's had his fair share of that already when they were younger.

 

They'd been at the same school and sitting next to each other had quickly turned them into close friends.

Later, Natasha had been James’ first kiss and then she'd been the first person he'd come out to.

 

Natasha had been an integral part of James' life, just like his mother and his sister. They both didn't do well with being apart.

 

When he went overseas, she'd been with his family to say goodbye and even though she hadn't been crying, the look in her eyes had been so open, so vulnerable, that it had scared him shitless.

 

She had never called, though, and James hadn't either.

 

Now he's back and somehow she'd found him and she's taking him home and she's not going to let him get away again.

 

James doesn't know what it is, that he feels, but it's the realest fucking thing he's felt for years.

 

*

 

Natasha's flat is spacious and impressive. It's modern and tastefully decorated, the kind of flat he and Rebecca dreamed about when they'd been younger.

 

It's strange, because Natasha never cared about these things, but with James missing a whole arm, it's definitely not the biggest change.

  
  


Natasha sets him up in her guestroom and says, “There's some stuff I gotta take care of,” in her mysterious Natasha way, but James is glad to get a minute for himself.

 

He shrugs off his duffel bag, sits down on the bed, and rolls his shoulders. The room is clean and pretty, tastefully decorated and looking like something straight out of an interior decorating magazine, the walls pastel colored and the bed sheets just a bit darker.

 

There's a little bedside table with a reading lamp and a dresser with four drawers and James thinks that if everything he has fits in this miserable duffel bag on the floor, how should he fill that whole thing?

 

*

 

So this is how James moves in with Natasha.

 

The thing is, he'd like it to continue like this: everything gets better after. He really would.

 

Instead it's like this: thing's get really, really bad.

 

*

 

Somehow the fact that James is now living with someone, someone who cares about him, but also someone who has a life of their own, it really sets him apart.

 

He sleeps worse than he did in the hotel.

 

He gets a panic attack one night, when he tries to go to bed like every normal human does. He lies on top of the soft mattress, the heavy blankets weighting him down, and when he closes his eyes he sees fire and smoke and he cannot breathe and the arm that's not there anymore burns and burns and he sobs into the pillows.

 

Natasha finds him with his eyes open, his face pressed against the bed, his cheeks are still wet, but there are no more tears, only a hollow gaze and heavy panting.

 

She puts his head into her lap and cards her fingers through his hair and whispers  _ Bucky, Bucky, oh Bucky _ -

 

It takes a long time for him to come back, but when he does, his left arm curls around her hip, tightly holding onto her, and when he speaks his voice is barely there. “He's not there anymore, Natasha.” he whispers. “I think he's gone.”

 

Natasha's sadness pools at her eyes and floods over her cheeks.

 

*

 

He spends most of his nights watching the city from Natasha's balcony after that. Smoking cigarette after cigarette and trying to see Brooklyn lights instead of the Afghan sky. It's like an imprint on his eyes – it's worse when he closes them, but even when they're wide open and he's looking at something else, it's still there. The dark sky, speckled with milky stars, the kind you never see in New York, because the lights are too bright.

 

This whole thing isn't like he imagined it, it's not like it is in the movies.

 

James doesn't fall apart when he hears loud noise, he doesn't want to go out, but he could, if he needed to, he isn't afraid to talk to others, but he knows it's better for everyone if he doesn't.

 

He barely even talks to Natasha.

 

She leaves early every morning, there are times where she's gone for days, and she always lets him know, but she never tells him where she's going. James doesn't ask, but he thinks she's working in some government position.

There's something in the line of her perfectly ironed clothes and the way she always puts her bag in her room when she's coming back to the flat.

 

It's strange, because it's what she always wanted to do - “I'm going to be a Russian spy.” she used to say, grim determination in her face -, but at that time Bucky had wanted to be a chef or a firefighter and somehow he'd always thought that they'd either reach their dreams together or both do something else instead.

 

And now he's a mess, entangled in the streaks of depression and melancholy and he has no idea how to get out, but he has no voice left to speak, so he stays silent and falls deeper with every day.

 

And maybe Natasha is not a spy, but whatever she does, she's doing it with icy enthusiasm, and when she comes back in the evening she looks tired, but also happy - satisfied like someone who's made the right decisions in his life, and then there’s James, sitting in her flat all day and waiting for her and dreading her arrival at the same time and it’s all so fucked up. 

 

And James feels bad about it. He should go. It's not good for her to see him like this, but he has nowhere to go and no idea how to figure this out.

 

*

 

Once James can hear her talk to someone over the phone. Her voice is low and soft. “I don't know what to do,” she says and then, “Maybe you could help,” and later, “I know that he has to come on his own.”

 

“ You're a good guy, Sam,” she says in the end, and Bucky thinks that's what resignation sounds like but he's wrong.

 

Because it takes nearly three months for Natasha to resign. She's not an impatient person, but James knows that she worries. Maybe he would worry too, if he had any strength left. She must be going stir crazy.

 

Someday in the middle of July she finds him lying on the floor of the balcony. He's spent several hours staring at the ceiling of the guestroom, until suddenly he couldn't take the white anymore, so he's moved it outside. He isn't doing anything else, his thoughts are slow and blurry, he is currently trying to remember his mother's favorite kind of flowers when there's the distinctive  _ click, click  _ of Natasha's heels.

 

He can see her standing in the open glass door for a moment, before she bends over, shoves off her heels and comes over. Her bare feet barely make a sound.

 

She lays down next to him, her knees touch his thigh and her forehead rests against his shoulder.

 

“ I think we need help,” she says and James knows that she's afraid. He wants to tell her that he knows (he does, he really does) and that he understands and that he wants to get better (he tries to, but to want something is such a explicit feeling and inside of him there's only a gray mash of nothing).

 

He says nothing.

 

“ There's someone I know,” she continues and when she moves her head he can feel her breath against his neck. The air smells like smoke and summer and Natasha and everything about this used to be home, used to be familiar and good, but now everything is alien and wrong.

 

“ You're still  my best friend, I don’t care how much time has passed or how we haven’t seen each other for years,” she explains. “I can’t lose you.” She lays her arm around him, holds him close without confining him. 

  
  


James sleeps in her bed that night, or rather: he lies next to her, listening to her breathing. He thinks that if he didn’t love her so much already, maybe he'd fall  _ in  _ love with her now. Maybe that would help.

He speaks a promise into the darkness. If not for himself, then for her.

  
  
He actually manages to fall asleep at 4am and sleeps until 8. He doesn’t even dream.


	3. Relearning to Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the comments, clicks and kudos, i really, really appreachiate it!  
> this is the last chapter with stevie absent, so bear with me, he's coming! 
> 
> i also gotta admit that i nearly ran out of finished chapters, so i might take some more time for the next one, buuut my summer holidays start in week so hopefully I'll have some time to work more on this, so I'll make the deadline!

_»I don't wanna_ _fall, fall away_  
_I'll keep the lights on in this place_  
_'Cause I don't wanna_ _fall, fall away«_

\- Twenty One Pilots - Fall Away

 

They spend the next 3 days carefully maneuvering around each other. 

James knows that Natasha doesn’t know what to do and neither does he. They both don’t want to hurt each other and he knows that she’s worried and doesn’t know what to do. 

James knows that she doesn’t want to force him to do anything, that Natasha is the last person to ever do that, but having to watch someone fall apart who you love is a strong motivator and he doesn’t want her to have to take that final step. 

  
  


It takes James another full day lying around in Natasha’s empty flat when she’s at work to make a decision. 

He’s going to start going out again. Maybe he can even get up with her in the morning, show her that he’s ready to get back up. It’s important that she sees what he’s doing, it’s important that she knows he’s getting better. 

He doesn’t think about how it’s not his wish to get better, but only a forced act to pretend that he’s alright with behaving like a normal human being, but right now he can’t face the possibility of having to go back to talking to strangers about what happened to him. 

  
  


So when the alarm on the phone that he hasn’t used once since he’s been back, goes off the next morning, James sits up in his bed, because he hasn’t slept anyway. He rubs over his eyes with the fingers of his right hand and clenches the metal fingers of his left around the sheets. 

He doesn’t want to do this. But he has too. 

  
  


Natasha is - surprised, to say the least. 

James can see the way she grips her coffee mug tighter when he comes into the kitchen. Fully dressed, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, wearing 3 layers of clothing as if to protect himself from the world he going to step back into. 

They don’t talk about it and from the way she looks at him, James thinks that maybe Natasha can still read him like she used to.

  
  


They walk down the stairs together and Natasha hands him a key. She hugs him tight and James feels so bad, because this painfully reminds him of the last time he said good-bye to her, but the last time he went to war and now he’s leaving the apartment and going back out the first time in months, climbing over mountains of built up fear and anxiety and this time it’s so much harder to go. 

“See you later,” she says and she looks proud and happy and James can see how she wants this to be a start, a new beginning, the point from where it’ll only go upwards, but inside of his head his own blood is rushing and his heart is hammering and he wants to cry. 

He doesn’t. 

He croaks out a  _ see you  _ and turns around before she does. They walk in opposite directions, Natasha is going to get a cab and James doesn’t know what he’s going to do. 

He decides to just walk. 

Like he did when he went to his mother’s grave or the day he met Natasha. He knows that if he manages to fall into a sort of trot, if he manages to shut off his brain, don’t think, just walk, maybe he’ll manage. 

And so he walks, his hand in his pocket and his head bowed, trying not to look up into people's faces. Other people. On their way to work, getting a take away coffee on the way, speaking into their phones, he get’s snippets of people trying to reschedule meetings and making lunch dates and all of them are alive and feeling something, tiredness or happiness because it’s Friday or anger because New York traffic is a bitch or  _ whatever _ , but they’re all feeling something and James is walking beside them, but he’s alone and all he can do is try not to lose his breath. 

*

They spend their weekend inside, Natasha buys ice cream and they watch Disney movies, which they would have never done a few years ago and James is fast to think that this is his fault, that they’ve struck another low point, but when the sweet little red haired girl that doesn’t want to be a princess and her mother who’s been turned into a bear spend the night in the woods, his heart aches in his chest and his mouth tastes like chocolate, he’s wrapped up in blankets and Natasha is on his right, having a hand in his hair and it’s actually nice and it’s the first time in so long that he allows himself to enjoy it. It’s the first time that something happens that he  _ can  _ enjoy. 

And it’s so easy to forget why they’re here and it’s easy to forget that it’s going to be hard again tomorrow, that James will have to go out again, that it’s not like in the movies where you take one step and everything else happens by itself. 

*

And then it’s Monday again and Natasha goes back to work and James goes back out. 

And somehow it’s even harder this time and his steps feel heavy and wooden on the pavement. Everything is much louder and people walk faster, too, rushing past him, shoving him aside. 

And it’s a guy that presses his arm against James’ arm, pressing his flesh against the metal’ of James’ left, it’s what trips him over and suddenly he has to get out, except that he already is out and he has to get inside, immediately. 

When he looks up there’s the front door of a deli, it’s a small shop, looking cosy and more importantly, empty and James doesn’t even think about, he just reflexively opens the door and gets inside. 

  
  


Inside it smells like coffee and food, the air is air conditioned and there’s soft, relaxing music playing quietly. It’s welcoming and James feels already a little bit better. At least he can breathe again. 

There’s a woman standing behind the counter, swiping over the gleaming surface with a cloth. Her hair has a light brown colour and curls around her ears and her face is open and kind. 

James knows that he has to order something, because it would be weird to be here in the shop, without buying something. 

He takes a couple of steps towards the counter, he remembers loving deli food when he was younger, there was a nice one around the corner of their old house, where he lived with Becca and their mom. He thinks of huge pastrami sandwiches and matzo ball soup. He hasn’t felt an intense desire to eat anything for months. Eating has become just a necessary requirement to stay alive. He barely even tastes much. 

  
  


James orders a water anyways, because even only the thought of going back outside makes the back of his neck itch. 

“Do you want anything else, love?” the woman behind the counter asks and smiles warmly at him. “We have great cheesecake or a nice sandwich.” 

“No, thanks Ma'am”, James declines, his voice quiet and a little shaky. He can’t remember the last time anyone has been so nice to him that wasn’t Natasha. It’s sort of overwhelming. 

“Alright. Let me know if you change your mind.” the woman says and hands him a bottle of cooled water. 

James just nods and sits down at a table in the back of the shop. He sits with his back to the wall and he can see both the counter and what must be the door to the kitchen and the entrance. Having all exits in sight has become an absolute obligatory requirement. 

  
  
  


James sits at the table for hours, he watches the minutes go by on a big old clock that hangs above the counter. 

A couple of people come in to buy a coffee or something to eat. The woman smiles broadly at all of them and happily talks to all of them. 

They all smile back and answer her questions. James thinks they must be regulars, from the way they behave. One woman that stays for ten minutes, even though her coffee only takes two, even turns back around at the door and calls “Oh, Sarah, don’t forget to tell Joseph that his sweet potato knish was the absolute best I’ve ever tasted.” She laughs. “Don’t tell my mum, though.” 

The woman behind the counter - Sarah - laughs, too. “I will. Have a good day, Lisa.” she says and then the little bells above the door ring when the door closes behind Lisa. 

Sarah looks back from the door to James and she’s still smiling at him warmly. 

James looks away and takes a sip of his water. 

*

He stays at the deli until one pm, when the lunch crowd is slowly coming in. 

James thinks about staying, but three young women sat down at the table next to his - happily chatting and laughing while devouring soup and salad. 

One of them blocks his view to the exit and it feels like the air in the shop is getting thinner. 

  
  


While he walks out, James looks at the floor, keeping his head down, his hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans, but he’s used to watching people from the corner of his eye and he can see the woman behind the counter - Sarah, he remembers - looking at him. 

When the door swings shut again, he thinks he can hear calling her goodbye after him. 

*

*

“Where have you been?” Natasha asks that evening. 

They’re sitting on her large couch in her spacious living room - both of them tucked into one corner, with their legs outstretched towards each other and still their feet are barely touching. 

“Were you just walking around or did you go somewhere specific?” 

James is honestly a little surprised that it took her so long to ask. She came home around five thirty (when James was once again lying on the balcony, listening to the street noise) and now it’s nine. 

“Just walked.” he mumbles. He wishes he could tell her he made a plan or went to a certain place. He wishes he could tell her he went to the VA or to his mother’s grave or just something. 

Instead he sat in a deli for hours, watched by a middle aged woman behind the counter, who looked like she wanted to put a blanket around him and personally feed him. 

It’s a little depressing (and with little he means  _ a lot _ , probably  _ the most _ ). 

  
“Okay,” Natasha says softly, wriggles a little forward and wraps her legs around his like an octopus. 


	4. The Opening of Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man, I'm so sorry it took me so long! I had some time issues and wifi problems. I'm holidaying now, the next chapter is done, only needs beta reading and I'm hoping that I'll be finished with this story when I come home
> 
> thank you all for your kudos and clicks and comments, sunny greetings from croatia

_"The light strengthened gradually and silently, changing from gray to rose to gold."_

\- PREPARATION FOR THE NEXT LIFE, Atticus Lish

 

 

 

They leave the flat together every day that week.  
It’s a little harder on Tuesday and James roughly remembers the aching pain after an intense workout that makes you want to stay in bed the whole next day. But he knows that the best medicine is just to do it again, so he does it again.  
  
He ends up sitting in the deli again, watching the woman swipe the counter and rearrange the cake display and the big cookie jars.  
  
  
He turns right around and goes back upstairs on Wednesday, because there’s a police car coming around the corner, blasting the alarm through the street at full volume (which itself maybe wouldn’t be so bad, but there’s a crying child, too and the sound reminds James too much of a situation in Kandahar. But back then children were crying because of different reasons and he ends up spending his morning sitting curled up under the shower, trying to wash away all those memories.  
  
(Natasha makes him hot chocolate that evening and even though James feels numb and distant, the warm cup feels good when he clutches it between his flash hand and his metal one.)  
  
  
He tries again on Thursday and makes it to the deli, but this time he isn’t even feeling so exhausted, so he just goes in to buy his water and continues walking mindlessly through the neighbourhood.  
  
James ends up getting a panic attack out of nowhere just two blocks further, which teaches him not to overestimate his strengths, so on Friday he just goes back inside the shop and stays there.  
  
*  
  
This is how James meets Steve;  
  
  
Natasha doesn’t have a regular Monday to Friday position, so she’s going to work as usual on Saturday and James goes with her again. She smiles at him when she’s leaving and it looks genuine and not half as worried as last week.  
He still hasn’t really told her where he’s going, but somehow he doesn’t want to. He’s glad she doesn’t press, just lets him walk away every day and pets his hair when he’s lying exhaustedly on the couch in the evening.  
  
  
James doesn’t take the same route every day, but by now he’s relatively at ease with the vicinity and knows where he’s going and how to get to the deli when he ends up somewhere else during his walks.  
  
  
When he steps into the shop the doorbell rings quietly. The room smells like coffee and cookies. Even after only a few days of coming here it already feels familiar.  
There’s a couple sitting at a table near the counter, talking quietly over a shared breakfast plate, and a man sitting in the corner where James sat yesterday.  
  
There’s no one behind the counter today, maybe Sarah only works weekdays or she’s in the back for a minute, which makes it four people currently in the room (James himself included), which is hardly a big crowd.  
James still considers leaving again, but there’s something about the atmosphere of the room and him not wanting to mess up this new found routine, that makes him want to try and stay.  
  
  
James walks towards the counter, wanting to buy his alibi water again, when the door behind the counter swings open.  
  
There’s a boy coming through the door, pulling a face. “Yes, mom,” he yells and looks like the personification of pubescent annoyance at all things grown up.  
James nearly smiles.  
  
The guy swipes a lock of blond hair that fell out of place from his face before turning to James.  
  
"Hey, can I get you anything?" he asks and smiles brightly.  
  
"Just a bottle of water is fine." James says hesitantly.  
The thing is, Sarah is always smiling at him, too, but it's the warm motherly kind of smile. But the way this boy smiles is just so different somehow. It's bright and real and youthful and it makes James ache a little inside because he remembers being like this. He remembers being 16 or 17 and fighting with his mother or being annoyed by Becca and all of that is so far away now. Sometimes he misses normalcy so much more than his left arm.  
  
He boy hands him his water and when James gets out his wallet to pay he shakes his head. "Oh no, if you sit down you can pay later, I made cookies and I'll get them out in a minute and if you don't get one I'll be really offended." he laughs and his eyes crinkle a little at the corners.  
  
  
This time James spends much more time watching the boy behind the corner than the people outside that walk past the shop.  
Just like he said,  
 the guy goes back to the kitchen after a couple of minutes and when he comes out again he's carrying a big plate of cookies. The scent is so strong that it wafts over to James' table in the corner, the sweet spicy smell of chocolate and cinnamon.  
  
The couple that sits directly at the counter make loud hmmm noises of appreciation and the boy makes a big deal of putting the two biggest cookies on a plate for them.  
The couple smiles at him and when they eat they make sure to drown him in compliments for his baking.  
  
James sits in his corner and turns the unopened bottle of water in his hands. For the first time in months he actually wishes that he was hungry enough to eat one of the cookies. Just so he could say something nice too.  
Instead he feels empty and alien and helpless.  
  
  
  
It takes the guy 10 more minutes to come to James’s table, too. He still smiling brightly and warmly and James wants to smile back and run away at the same time. He’s feeling exhaustingly overwhelmed by this boy’s open face.  
  
“Okay, here I am. Do you want your cookie now? It’s kind of an obligation. Every customer has to eat Steve Rogers’ cookies - that’s me, by the way, hello!” he grins and makes an overall gesture to himself.  
  
“Um,” James says and turns his eyes away. “I’m good, really.”  
  
“I’m just gonna ignore that.” Steve Rogers still sounds like he’s smiling. James doesn’t dare to look up again. “I’ll just bring you one,” He continues and then he’s gone.  
  
James watches him walking back towards the counter.  
  
He’s a tiny guy, looking like 14 or 15 from behind, but something in his face makes him look a little older, probably around 17. He’s skinny, dressed in regular jeans that seem to be a little too big on his hips, and a white shirt, wearing the diner’s apron over it.  
His hair is blond and looks a little over grown, it tends to fall into his eyes and while he’s fixing James’ cookie he swipes it away 3 times and tries to tuck it behind his ear, but for that it’s still too short.  
  
It makes James think of his own hair, how he used to wear it short and with a lot of product in it. Now the tips reach his chin and make him look like a homeless person.  
It’s little things like these that make James angry. Seeing this boy, his obvious youth and his bright eyes, the way he smiles at James. Not knowing what he’s done, how many people he’s killed, how much blood he’s seen. Not knowing that there’s metal instead of flesh hidden under the fabric of his jacket. Not knowing anything.  
  
  
“Here you go,” Steve says when he comes back. He puts down a little plate with a big, perfect looking cookie. It’s golden brown and the little bits of chocolate perfectly molten. It makes him even more angry. At himself and Steve and this stupid cookie he hasn’t asked for.  
  
Steve looks like he wants to say something else, but then the door swings open and Sarah comes out.  
  
“Stevie?” She yells, and James can see Steve’s face practically crumble. “Can you go upstairs for a moment? Dad needs you.” And he’s flushing a bit, too.  
  
“Goddammit.” Steve mutters. He turns around, yells back; “Sure, Mom” and goes. Hanging his head a bit and dragging his feet.  
  
And just like that James’ anger is gone again. He thinks,  _oh god, he's so young._  
  
*  
  
James takes the cookie with him when he leaves. He stays for nearly another hour, but Steve doesn’t come back down. When he pays he asks for a napkin and carefully wraps the cookie. He’s still not really feeling his sweet tooth, but he feels bad about it and somehow he doesn’t want Steve to know that he didn’t eat it.  
  
He gives it to Natasha that evening and she smiles and mmmhhh’s loudly while she’s eating it.  
  
*  
  
It’s Natasha’s day off the next day, but James decides to go outside anyways. He’s afraid to break his little routine. She says she understands. James also saw her texting someone called Clint this morning with something near to excitement in her eyes when he asked if she wanted to go out for lunch.  
  
He doesn’t mention it when he leaves, he doesn’t want her to think he’s checking up on her.  
  
  
  
When he comes to the deli the breakfast crowd is already gone again. There’s only an old man sitting by the windows today.  
Steve is standing behind the counter. He looks up when the door opens.  
  
“Oh hello again.” he greets. “What can I get you today?” He puts away a comic book he’s been reading.  
  
“Water again,” James requests, but when Steve turns around he decides that Sunday is a good day to try something new. “Uh, or maybe a tea?” he asks hesitantly.  
  
Steve turns back. He’s smiling like James just announced that he wants the whole shop. “Sure. Let me get the list, what kind of tea did you have in mind?”  
  
James shrugs, he didn’t really think that far. “I don’t know.”  
  
He must be looking really helpless because Steve just keeps smiling and says “I really like our herbal tea mix, do you maybe want to try that one?”  
  
James just nods.


	5. Progression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god i'm a slob! I'M SO SORRY!!! personal heartbreak and general real life came in my way and blocked my muse, we're still not fully back at peace, but at least i managed to get up and post this chapter! 2/3 of it are even beta read..... i can't promise you that the next one will be here faster, tho

_"Maybe in his next life, his feelings would be less than all-consuming and some portion of him would remain for understanding."_

\- HERE I AM, Jonathan Safran Foer

 

Somehow this is how it goes from there - James goes out every morning to walk around the endless streets of New York, until he feels like everything becomes a little too much, and then he goes back to the Rogers’ family Deli.

When he’s back on Monday, Sarah’s back at the counter and there’s a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of not seeing Steve today.

So he goes back to buying a water and sitting quietly in the corner. He did like the tea that Steve had picked for him the day before, but somehow he doesn’t want to choose the next one alone.

  


It’s becoming a routine, having this weird plan for his day, going to the Deli, but it’s not really something James finds exciting or great or - just something. He doesn’t really have any opinion about it at all. He just goes day after day.

He wonders if that’s what recovering is - doing things you don’t understand, but that somehow keep you a little in check.

  


Steve is back on Saturday.

James comes in around eight thirty in the morning. He feels gritty and on edge today, he’s dreamed of their last mission and of Pierce, his last handler. His cold face and measured voice, the way he spoke to James. Tellin him how important it is, how it’s a _gift to mankind_ and _shaping the century_.

James tries not to think about how he’s never really seen any evidence against the people he was sent out to kill. How he once killed a whole family. How Pierce told him that he shouldn’t bother mourning for the hopeless souls of the enemy. Pierce spoke about peace, too, while telling agents to go out and kill everyone in the dead of the night.

This night James dreamed that his hands were covered in blood and it kept streaming down his arms, drawing red lines on his skin and the metal of his left side. He’d muffled his screams in the pillow, trying not to wake Natasha.

When he went outside it had been still dark and even though it seems like New York City never really sleeps, it was easy to pretend like James has been the only one awake.

Somehow it’s much more ugly outside at night. Everything’s grey and pale and when James walks by a couple of homeless people that have curled in between bags of trash and old clothes, he thinks about the small line of luck that is separating him of ending up like this. He knows how many veterans end up in the streets.

  


When he opens the door to the shop Steve looks up from where he’s slumped down on the counter. There’s no one there but him.

“Hey man,” he says sluggishly and waves a hand. “We’re not actually open yet.” he adds.

James didn’t expect that, he considers going back to Natasha’s, crawling back between the sheets, but he’s sure the fear and terror of his dreams must somehow cling to them, so that doesn’t really feel too appealing.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Steve.

“Alright, whatever. I suppose you don’t want to eat anything anyways, right?” Steve shrugs. “I guess you can just stay.”

“‘Kay,” James croaks.

“Want your water?” Steve asks when James’ is halfway to his table. He turns back to him and shakes his head.

“‘M good.” he says silently and hears Steve mumble something like “Oh yeah, you look real peachy, dude,” and sees him shake his head.

*

The thing is James expects to spend his day sitting around silently and lonely.

But Steve brings him a cup of tea around 10:30 and somehow doesn’t leave after.

“So, I know you haven’t ordered anything, but my mom taught me to care for others and no offense, but you really look like you might need this,” he says and puts down the steaming cup in front of James. The water is coloured slightly red and smells like sweet berries.

“It’s called Bavarian Wild Berry and it’s my personal favourite for shit days,” Steve explains and sits down next to James.

He’s remaining at a sensible distance, but somehow it’s still very close.

“Uh,” James says and tries to form an actual word, but it feels like an impossible task, because he doesn’t even know what he’s thinking, let alone what he wants to say. He puts out his right hand instead and wraps it around the cup.

“Maybe leave it for another minute, to make sure it’ll taste it’s absolute best,” Steve says and his eyes are really, really blue and the strands of his blond hair are brushing his lashes when he blinks.

James feels weird for noticing it, so he watches the swirl of the tea instead, warmth flowing through his fingers.

  


They sit in silence after that, James taking careful sips of tea, tasting the heavy sweetness of the berries and the strong flavour of black tea. He decides that he likes this tea even more than the herbal one from last time and he wishes he could just remember how to be normal again, so he could tell Steve.

But somehow it’s not awkward anyways. Steve brought a book and around eleven there was a customer coming in, so he got up to serve them while chatting happily. He left his book on the table though, as if he fully intends to come back.

  


James feels warm all over now, barely even thinking about his dreams anymore. It’s almost a good feeling.

*

This is how the whole day goes;

James sits on his table and drinks his tea in small sips, Steve sits next to him, reading his book, he gets up when customers come in, prepares their food and drinks, sometimes he goes into the kitchen - he always comes back, though.

It’s comforting, it’s surprising, it’s good.

Bucky goes back to Natasha’s at four in the afternoon. It’s been the longest he's been in the Deli so far and even though he and Steve haven’t talked it hasn’t felt strange or awkward.

There’s a little part inside of James that thinks that maybe Steve just knew what James needed. Without him knowing it himself.

  


“Hey stranger,” Natasha says when he comes into the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table, holding a cup between her hands.

“Hi,” James says and rubs his fingers through the hair in his neck. He doesn’t know if she’s angry at him for being gone so long or if she’s just joking. It’s been too long and now he can’t see through her mask anymore.

“Do you want a tea?” Natasha asks and holds up her cup a little.

James thinks about the tea he already drank today, about how Steve choose it and said it’s _his favourite for shit days_. He also thinks about telling Natasha about it, but he doesn't know how to explain it.

What can he say; I met a teenage boy, he makes me drink his favourite tea and sits silently next to make and his eyes have the colour of cornflowers? It’s ridiculous.

“No thank you.” he says instead. But it’s Natasha and he doesn’t want her to feel rejected. “Can we watch a movie again?”

*

“So,” Steve starts on Monday. He made James drink ginger tea yesterday and today it’s turkish apple and James likes this one better than the one yesterday. When he came in today he wondered why Steve was still here, because it’s Monday and doesn’t he have to go back to school? He doesn’t ask, though, because they still don’t talk. Or; Steve does, a little, but James still feels like he can’t really grasp the things he wants to say.

“It’s summer break now and I’ll be here nearly every day now, because,” he looks up to the counter where his mother is polishing cutlery and talking to an old lady that sits on the table a few meters away from her. “they can really use my help. My mom has some issues with her back and my dad refuses to do the counter, he only ever works in the kitchen.”

There’s this thing about Steve - the way he just talks about things and tells them, like James knows half of it anyways and Steve only needs to fill in the empty spaces. Like he’s helping James catch up rather than telling him a new thing every time.

He’s unapologetically friendly and open and maybe that’s a little what warms James from the inside, not the tea, but Steve’s smile and the tone of his voice when he talks about his parents.

It’s a little like he’s overflowing with it and last night James thought about his mother. Really thought about her, the colour of her hair, the shape of her face, the warmness of her hands and how she ruffled his hair, even when he was 21 and going to Afghanistan.

He thinks she’d call Steve a little sunshine.

“So yeah, I’ll be around a lot and,” Steve hesitates. “If you mind you should probably look for another place to hang out and do your musings.” He swallows and swipes his hair out of his eyes. He looks a little nervous and very young.

“And if you don’t mind, I - “ he laughs. “umm, I made you tea and gave you my cookie, which you probably haven’t eaten anyway.” he holds up a hand, “don’t lie to me. I think it’s only fair if you give me your name. Otherwise I’ll have to give you weird nicknames in my head. Which you - “ he shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “definitely don’t wanna know about.”

“Oh,” James says, because he has kind of forgotten that he hasn’t even given Steve his name yet. Steve has this weird way of looking at you like he knows _a lot,_ so it didn’t really came up that he actually doesn’t.

“Um, my name. It’s… it’s James.” James says.

“James huh?” Steve smiles a half smile. “Nice to meet you James, I’m Steve,” he says earnestly and puffs up his chest and looks like he wants to stick out his hand for James to shake and he looks so ridiculous, his eyebrows drawn together and such a serious look in his eyes.

James laughs.

Steve looks affronted and just the way a teenager looks when he’s feeling like an adult is laughing at him, and James is genuinely feeling sorry, but somehow he can’t stop now. It’s bubbling up from somewhere deep in his stomach and he laughs and laughs.

A couple of moments pass and then something in Steve’s face shifts and he’s laughing too now.

When they stop James is breathing hard and Steve is actually wheezing a little and now he’s looking like he’s proud that he made James laugh. “Fucking asthma,” he coughs and wheezes some more and then he stands up and gets a little white thing, puts it in his mouth and takes a few puffs. “Completely worth it, though.” he says when his breathing is even again and James feels the corners of his mouth curl up.

*

James brings home more cookies that evening and albeit he doesn’t eat one but he picks up a few of the crumbs that fall down when Natasha eats them. He licks his thumb and tastes chocolate and Natasha smiles at him and he smiles back.

*

Now it’s like this; James goes straight to the shop. He doesn’t set an alarm or something, just goes when he feels like it.

Some days he’s early and after he spends two mornings watching Steve wipe down the counter and prepare the deli for the day, he wordlessly helps by putting the chairs and tables back in order.

Steve doesn’t comment and James is happy for it, because it just feels good to do something. To help.

After that Steve brings him a tea. Somehow he comes up with a new sort for James to try everyday. Chamomile and plain English breakfast, rosebud tea that tastes strangely sweet and watery, even after James leaves it to draw for nearly 10 minutes. He likes the fruity ones the most - strawberry and the summer berry mix, and a weird one that tasted like tangerines in summer.

And James drinks his tea and watches the people inside and outside and he watches Steve, too. Steve, how he works behind the counter, how he smiles brightly at everyone - his kindness lighting up the room.

He also watches Steve talk to his mother, when she comes in, how he suddenly looks a little smaller, a little annoyed, but in the happy pubescent way that speaks about the healthy way of a teenage son growing up. He watches Sarah ruffle Steve’s hair and Steve’s cheeks go a little red.

And then he watches Steve look up shortly. Look up and look at him, as if he checks if James has seen the way his mother touches her son.

Steve’s cheeks turn a bit redder when he realizes that James has seen it.

*

There’s something that shifts inside of him. It’s small and tender and slow and he doesn’t notice at first, but Natasha does, because she’s smart like this and knows him better than he does himself. Even now.

“If I wouldn’t know any better I’d say you started baking for the homeless.” she says one evening, when they’re curled up on her sofa and she is eating his obligatory takeaway cookies from Steve and James is nibbling at the crust of a sandwich (because he isn’t ready for a cookie yet, but he’s starting to get a bit of an appetite back and Natasha still makes the best melted cheese sandwiches).

“Seriously, though. The way you always smell these days.” she licks crumbs of her fingers and pops a forlorn raisin in her mouth. “Not that I’m complaining, obviously.” she continues and stretches the word comically. _Ob-vioooously_ , like it’s normal that he goes away everyday and she doesn’t know where to and what he’s doing.

James thinks of Steve and how he sits beside James when it’s quiet in the shop. How he reads a book or sketches with charcoal in a leather bound notebook.

“I can show you,” he offers and feels weirdly brave. Like he's giving something away that has only been his and maybe that’s really what he does.

And it’s been so long that he had something that had belonged to him alone, because in the army you’re never alone and if you are then you’re either on the toilet or lost in the field and now James has this - the little shop with it’s sweet smell and smiling customers and Sarah Rogers that reminds him of his mother in a way that’s so distant that it doesn’t hurt.

And there’s Steve, too. The skinny boy with the floppy hair and bright smile that’s for everyone and somehow it’s for James, too.

And there’s another thing; something that’s been blossoming in the hollow space where James thinks that other people carry their hearts behind their ribcage - a tender thing that’s warm and breathing and growing and living, a _feeling,_ familiar and still so surprising and unexpected.

There’s a part of James that knows exactly what it is, a part that’s scared and excited at the same time, but he keeps pushing it away, because it’s irrational and Steve is just a boy and it’s only been weeks.

  
Maybe that’s part of why he hasn’t shown Natasha yet. Maybe because he’s afraid she’s going to take one look at him and know and call it by it’s name and say it out loud, make it real and impossible.


	6. Refusal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING  
> this chapter is super short, but its me sorting some things out that go on in Bucky's head..... i think (again i have no idea what i'm doing, i'm taking the road less traveled here and i just vaguely know where i want to end up)  
> oh i just wanna let you know, today it occurred to me that i could let this end without a happy end..... whatdoyouthink?

_"And miles from where you are_  
_I lay down on the cold ground and I_  
 _I pray that something picks me up_  
 _And sets me down in your warm arms"_

Snow Patrol - Set Fire To The  Third Bar

 

James takes Natasha with him a couple of days later.

He’s feeling a strange mixture of nervous and excited and it’s still so new to be feeling anything _at all_ , that he’s a bit overwhelmed by the intensity of it. He’s ready to bold and turn around every minute and his fingers itch for something to hold or a cigarette to smoke, to calm his nerves a little.

But he hasn’t smoked in nearly two weeks now and he’s thrown away the last pack he had four days ago.

He can feel Natasha look at him strangely from the side, but she doesn’t say anything.

When they arrive at the shop he holds the door for her and she smiles at him and then they’re inside and Sarah’s behind the counter and Steve is nowhere to be seen.

 

Which is - good, James decides hesitantly after two seconds of disappointment, because just showing her the shop is enough on it’s own.

 

“This is it,” he says slowly and quietly and gestures vaguely into the room. He wants to explain what it means to him to come here, how it became a safe house, a rock in the wild sea that is the city for him, but Natasha looks around and then she looks back at him and it’s _Natasha_ , and James thinks that maybe she’ll understand without him fishing for words. Maybe it’s just okay like this, for now.

And apparently it is, because Natasha reaches out and pats his arm - the right one, she doesn’t ever touch his left - and smiles and just looks at him like she _does_ understand and then it turns into a grin.

“This is really convenient anyways, because I’ve been craving pastrami for ages.” she says and washes away the tightness in James’ throat with graceful nonchalance that doesn’t make him feel neglected.

 

So that is how they end up sitting at his usual corner table, Natasha munching happily on a huge pastrami sandwich (seriously, James would have thought that it must have been a child thing, that now that he’s grown up pastrami sandwiches can’t be _that_ big, proportions and such, but no, it’s still massive) and James even steals a pickle from her plate.

“This is really, really good,” she smiles at Sarah when she comes to ask if they want anything else and Sarah smiles and thanks her and then the kitchen door opens and - there’s Steve.

“Mom can you - oh, _hi_ ” he says and smiles when he notices James. “I was wondering where you were.” he adds and James cannot help to shrug, feeling a little sorry.

Sarah smiles one last time at them and then she steps away again, walking back to the counter and it looks like Steve wants to come to the table instead, but then he falters and his eyebrows draw together a little.

“Oh”, he says again and; “you’ve brought company.” He looks at Natasha, a little unsure, losing his usual smile.

That’s surprising and a little weird.

James can see him swallow down words, the bopping of his adam’s apple and he looks lost and small against the height of the counter.

It makes James realize that Steve’s a boy, a teenager with a heart too big and a smile too bright. It makes him swallow hard on his own now, because what the hell has he been thinking?

*

“So,” Natasha says when they’re back home. She’s sounding way too casual. “Guessing from how you abstained from eating all morning, I’d say it’s not the nice food that draws you to the Roger’s Family Deli, right?”

And there’s so much implied in that question that James refuses to answer.

He goes to hang up his jacket and unsure if he wants to flee, stays standing a little lost in the middle of the room.

“He seems nice, Jamie.” Natasha offers and steps a little closer to his side, grabbing his hand. She feels small and soft between his fingers, warm and gentle where he’s rough and calloused. At least this side is real.

It’s the first time she’s called him by one of his old nicknames since the day they met again and he feels the walls crumble.

“It’s not like that, Tasha.” he answers and it comes out hesitantly and quiet.

“I think he’d like it to be something.” Natasha laughs. “Judging by how he gave me the murder gaze and then just left. I forgot how intense teenage boys can be.”

“But that’s the problem. He’s a little boy. He lives with his parents. He helps them out in their shop. I bet he does his homework before he goes to sleep. He fucking sketches when he sits next to me.. He’s - he’s” James struggles for words. He wants to say how Steve is like the sun, bright and warm and so, so innocent. He wants to tell her about how his forehead crinkles when customers are impatient or how he made fists under the table when a guy was rude to his girlfriend. How is he supposed to ruin someone like that? He’s a monster with a metal arm, he’s killed a shitton of people, there’s literal blood on his hands and as if that’s not enough, now he’s lusting after a teenager.

“He’s just a fucking boy.” he grits out, unable to say anything else. Unable to explain the strings that constrict his breathing and leave him lying awake at night.

 

Natasha doesn’t say anything, but she grips his hand a little harder and presses her face against his chest. Exactly over his heart. She’s Natasha, he doesn’t have to explain anything to her.


	7. Saying Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a mess... i wrote it ages ago and i haven't written anything more since, which i wanted to before posting this, but today i decided to post it just like this bc maybe that'll motivate me to finish this story.  
> i'm honestly so sorry, I love this story so much, but at the same time i struggle with it so much, i'm sorry i'm sorry
> 
> happy festivities to everyone who's celebrating

 

_"And I often wonder why,_   
_Someone as flawed as I_   
_Deserves to be as happy as you make me"_

Sia - Angel By The Wings

 

 

James doesn’t go to the shop for a full week. His nightmares have gotten worse again and even the mere thought of going outside makes him feel sick. So he stays inside, watches television, orders Natasha to buy him new cigarettes and smokes on the balcony. He feels sad and lonely and he’s so incredibly disappointed that it feels like a heavy stone lying in the pit of his stomach.

Natasha pets his hair in the evening when she comes home. She keeps encouraging him, too. Telling him how “recovery isn’t a straight line, there’s always ups and downs”, but James keeps thinking about Steve.

He thinks that he misses him. It’s a strange and alien feeling. Having found something and gotten so used to it, that now, when he doesn’t have it anymore it feels like he’s back to his uncomplete broken self. It hurts exactly like the missing left arm, but a little different, too.

  


It takes him one entire week to get his shit back together. Or at least; so far together that he manages the walk to the shop without breaking into horrible sweats and having a minor panic attack.

When he opens the door he’s greeted with the familiar smell of baking and Steve’s bright smile.

It’s not that suddenly everything falls into place and is now good and perfect, but there’s a weight that’s been lifted off him a little and for the first time since he came back, James feels like eating.

“Hey,” he croaks, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“Hey yourself,” Steve replies.

James walks towards the counter and when he reaches it, he puts his hands on the surface, just so that they’re mirroring Steve’s who are lying on the other side.

“Say,” James tries. “Do you think I could get some tea and umm, maybe a bagel or something?” he asks hesitantly

Steve’s smile gets impossibly brighter. “Of course. With cream cheese or something or just plain? We also have raisin bagels, but I don’t know if you -” he stops and James smiles back warily.

“Just cream cheese is fine, Steve.”

“Alright, sit down, sit down. I’ll be serving you in a minute.” He waves James away.

  


Steve sits down next to James a few minutes later, presenting him with a steaming mug and a bagel that’s been cut into two perfect halves and layered with a perfect coat of cream cheese.

The tea smells like apple. James smiles.

“Thank you,” he says and for a moment he’s afraid that Steve’s gonna just sit there and watch him eat, because that would be very weird, but then Steve pulls up a tiny sketchbook and a pen from the back of his jeans and just starts sketching.

It’s the closest to perfect anything has ever been for James.

The bagel is, too.

*

When James has finished the whole bagel and is sipping the rest of the tea, Steve looks back up from his sketchbook, like he knows that now James is ready to be looked at or talked to.

“So,” he starts and seems hesitant and unsure. “I had an idea. A couple of days ago, actually. I wanted to ask you earlier, but I wasn’t sure and then he didn’t come in for a week - which is fine,” he puts up his hands and nods his head enthusiastically. “Of course that’s fine. I just, I wasn’t sure, maybe, okay, whatever, so I thought um,” he just breathes in and out for a second. “I obviously don’t know you very well and I have no idea about your life, but I mean, I’m not stupid and I noticed a few things, so I thought maybe you’re a vet and maybe you’re struggling a little and since school is starting again in a week and then my parents are short of staff again, but they can’t really afford to hire anyone full time, they don’t even need that, but maybe, I don’t know, I just thought - maybe you wanna jump in and help them with a few things.” Steve shrugs, his eyebrows drawn together, a steel crease appearing on his forehead. “I think I heard that having something to do helps, sometimes. Feeling useful and all that. My mom wants to adopt you anyways.”

James just blinks. He stares at Steve, processing what he said, what he offered. He’s unsure if he’s understood it right.

Does Steve want him to work for his parents? Do Steve’s parents want him to work for them?

Him? James Barnes, who’s only a shell of who he’s used to be, unsure of the person he’s been and having absolutely no idea what kind of person he wants to be now.

Unable to forget the faces that he’s shot, the voices he made cry, remembering all of them, their blood and the colour of their skin, Pierce’s voice, the smell of sand and heat -

James Barnes was a boy once, but then he went to war, still green behind his ears, turning into a silvery monster, losing his arm and everything else.

Some days he feels like someone manipulated his brain, deleted everything but the war, turned him into a weapon, stripped bar of his ability to live a normal life.

  


He swallows and tries to breathe. Suddenly it all comes crashing down around him. He thinks of Natasha, telling him to breathe, but he can’t. He can’t.

“I’m sorry, it’s - I’m not - I don’t” he mumbles, wanting to explain, wanting to excuse himself, but unable to do anything but stutter helplessly.

“Hey, hey, James. You can think about it. Seriously, maybe it was a stupid idea and I completely overwhelmed you, I’m sorry, just forget it if you want. I’m stupid.”

“No, No. It’s me, I’m stupid. Can’t get this right, can’t get anything right. I’m sorry.” James grits out and shakes, his hands trembling, the machine in his body whirring, he plates in his hand shifting, confused by the signals his brain is sending.

“Shh, hey, breathe. You gotta breathe,” Steve says and suddenly he’s much closer, his hand on James upper back, sending warmth even through the layers of his clothes and the other one gripping his wrist delicately.

“Just try to breathe in real slow, okay? And then out again. Follow me, just do it like me, in and out, in and out - “ Steve breathes and breathes and breathes and James tries to follow. It takes an eternity, but when he finally feels like the world around him stopped turning, his face tickles weirdly and the fingertips of his right hand are numb.

He notices Steve’s hand moving in circles on his back.

He also notices that the other hand is on his metal arm. He wants to jump away, pull his arm away so Steve doesn’t have to touch it, but he’s feeling weak and tired, so he just hangs his head and breathes, watching the bread crumbs on the table flutter in the air.

“I’m sorry.” he says after another century and then, without thinking, he turns his left hand in Steve’s grip, moving it so, that Steve’s hand slips upwards a little and his fingertips touch the inside of James’ palm. “I’m sorry, Stevie.”

*

James talks to Natasha about it. He makes her cry a little and that’s very frightening, because if she cries over something as little as someone offering him a job, how can he ever do anything without making her sad again? He’s also a little unsure if she’s crying about the job thing or the fact that he had a little mental breakdown about it himself.

But then she wipes her eyes, swiping smudges of mascara over her cheeks, looking a little crazy herself now, and smiles. “I’m so happy, Jamie.” she says and laughs and James laughs a little too.

  


So he goes back to the shop the next day, fully intending to apologizing to Steve  for acting like the crazy person that he actually is and taking him up on the job offer (if it still stands).

  


“Yeah of course. It’s actually super convenient right now because, oh wait a moment - “ Steve grins and turns around and yells “Moooom, Mom, can you come here for a second, um, James is here he wants to see if he can help out.” and then the kitchen door swings open and out comes Sarah Rogers, smiling brightly, just like her son, making James wonder if maybe he should just run away, so he won’t disappoint these people.

“Um, hi,” he says instead, because he wants to do something right. Just once.

“Hello James,” she says and actually extends her hand. Like he’s worth the courtesy. Like he’s a normal person.

“Hello Mrs Rogers.” he greets. Sounding clipped and strange. He’s halfway about to just fucking faint.

James tries to smile.

“Oh, just call me Sarah.” Mrs - Sarah - laughs. Looking warm and inviting and overwhelming. “My son is telling me only the best about you, James.” she tells him.

James looks at Steve.

Blond, tiny and beautiful Steve. Looking even smaller and younger next to his mother.

World’s grimmest teenager, with his steely crease between his eyebrows and the earnest look in his eyes.

James’ heart flutters and he’s afraid and scared, but all of it is real. And the excitement is, too. He smiles.

“I heard you might need some help in the shop?”

*

Natasha and James drink a celebratory shot of vodka that evening. It’s the first time in what feels like forever that James drunk alcohol and he almost chokes on the acidly taste of it. But then it spreads warm and heavy in his belly and it’s the good kind of burn.

He wraps his arm around Natasha, her small weight against his chest and her smell in his nose, feeling almost a little content.

He thinks there’s just enough space on his other side for a small person to fit.


	8. Finger's Intertwined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got no words, just that I'm sorry, I still love this story tho and i hope there's still someone left to care for it too

_ “It’s a very powerful feeling when someone sees you as the person you wish you were.”  _

-Veronica Mars

  
  


The next day James is supposed to be at the Deli at 10:30, because that’s when the morning crowd is slowing down and Steve’s dad Joseph is starting to prepare everything for lunch time. They agreed that it would be best if James didn’t work front. He’s going to be giving Joseph a hand in the kitchen and also help when the supplies are getting delivered (because the boxes of bottles and even bigger boxes of food are actually really heavy and it would all be going down much smoother if there would be someone else helping the delivery guy). 

 

But James barely sleeps that night, fretting about how he cannot, under no circumstances, fuck this up. There’s a split second in when he thinks about second chances and fate and how he just randomly selected the deli and what he found wasn’t only peace and quiet but so much more, and now he’s getting an actual chance at pulling his life together. 

 

He gets up around 7, gets into the shower and even washes his hair with Natasha’s fancy conditioner, because today matters a lot. 

 

Back when James lived - or rather; just existed - in the hotel, he had put a towel over the mirror in the bathroom, not daring to face his reflection, especially not unclothed, he could deal with his scars and prosthetic wrapped up in layers and layers of clothes, but he couldn’t even really look down on his shoulder back then, the contrast between pink scar tissue and metal too crass, too strange, too  _ wrong _ , and after a while the roomservice didn’t even bother putting the towel away anymore. 

 

Obviously, James couldn’t block Natasha’s access to the mirror permanently, but he started the towel ritual here, too, still unable, to look at himself.

 

But today, when he gets out of the shower, he pulls it slowly away, blinking drowsily against the blurry reflection on the fogged glass. 

He doesn’t look to close, just waits one, two seconds and then bends down, to get his clothes and pulls them on without looking in the mirror again. 

But when he’s dressed, James takes Natasha’s hair brush and rubs his right hand over the mirror, wiping away the wetness, so he can see himself properly, and then he carefully combs his hair, parting it orderly in the middle, so instead of looking like a beggar, he can look just like all the guys on the streets, that are seemingly unaffected by the way they look, but about whom he suspects, that every hair is laying exactly where it’s supposed to. 

  
  


When he’s done, James stays for another moment, just looks and breathes and there is a small little part of him, that seems to feel a very careful and subdued version of something you could call pride. It’s nice. 

 

*

 

James goes to his mother’s grave before he gets to the shop and buys a bunch of flowers that he doesn’t know the name of, but they’re blue and they look fresh and pretty and they remind him of Steve. 

 

He lays them on the grave and squats down in front of them. He started sitting there, for some time, half an hour or something, just thinking about his mom or Becca, but today he put effort in what he choose to wear and it’s ridiculous, he knows it, because he’s going to help in a kitchen, but he doesn’t want to be already dirty when he starts. 

 

So James just squats down, and puts both his hands on the ground, next to his shoes and he thinks about the things he wants to tell her. How sorry he is, how much he misses her. How he thinks about Steve when he tries to fall asleep. How it reminds him of being 17 himself again. How he thinks she would have liked him.

How there’s a similar flower blooming in his chest, how it is both frightening and comforting. But mostly frightening. 

 

*

When Sarah takes James into the kitchen it’s the first time he actually sees Joseph Rogers.  

He’s a tall man with broad shoulders, looking so much bigger than his son, but when James steps closer and takes the offered hand, he sees that his eyes have the same colour as Steve’s and that there are still a few strands of his grey hair, that are sandy coloured. 

 

*

Joseph is patient and quiet. He radiates knowledge and a strange sort of wisdom and his instructions are clear. 

He tells James about all meals they serve in the deli, explains what goes well with what and says which ones are the lunch favourites and which are often ordered around for dinner. 

 

It’s strange, but in a way, he reminds James of Natasha. They don’t talk about much else than the cooking, but the way he looks at James when he has to take a moment because the whiring of his fingers is getting too distracting - it feels like he looks right through him and sees everything he’s ever done, every step he’s ever taken. 

It’s some sort of quiet acknowledgement, James doesn’t feel judges, he just feels  _ seen _ , and up until now only Natasha was ever able to make him feel that way. 

 

*

Steve actually comes barging in around 2 pm, ordering James to come and sit with him, because he’s taking a break and wanting some company. Joseph just shrugs and takes the knife from James’ hand and James is not stupid, he knows what Steve is doing, this is as much about giving James a break as it’s about himself, but he doesn’t mind.

Even if Joseph doesn’t talk much and doesn’t do chit chat, it’s still a lot to take in, so James gratefully sits down next to Steve in their little corner, smiling when he sees a steaming mug and another perfectly cut bagel with cream cheese. 

 

“You know, by now you really should have at least tasted my cookies.” Steve says, but grins and then stuffs his face with a monstrum of a sandwich that’s layers and layers of pastrami, pickles and actual sauerkraut. 

  
  


They eat in silence, James carefully chewing every bite of hs bagel and Steve munching happily. James looks down most of it, but he doesn’t feel watched and he’s grateful for it. 

When he’s finished he wraps his hands around his mug and blows even though is probably only lukewarm, by now. 

 

“It’s a new sort, apple crumble, I mean I thought, even if you don’t eat it, maybe you still like the taste and smell and by now I know you like apple, so.” Steve shrugs. 

 

James takes a sip and looks up. 

 

“Thank you”, he says carefully and what he wants to say is  _ you look beautiful in this light  _ or  _ you’re the strangest and brightest thing that has ever happened to me _ , but instead he only puts his hand on the table, with the inside of his wrist turned up, the fingers spread open. 

 

Steve looks at him, shifts his eyes to James’ hand on the table and then back to his face. 

 

“You’re a great guy, James”, he says and just takes his hand. 


	9. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am finished. The last chapter is really short and in a way it’s only a beginning, it’s also not what I first wanted but I hate unfinished shit and that’s why it’s like this now. I definitely plan on revisiting this story one day, maybe rewriting it all who knows.  
> Thanks to everyone who stayed and read it

_»A spring was breaking / out in my heart.«_

— Antonio Machado, tr. by Robert Bly, “Last Night, As I Was Sleeping,”

 

 

This is how they do it; James comes to the shop in the mornings, when the blinds are still closed. He helps bring in the heavy stuff, takes carts of vegetables from Sarah and carries the bottles and cartons of milk and juice.

He then helps Joseph setting up the kitchen, preparing the food, baking batches of fresh cookies and bread and cake.

 

There’s the added pleasure of seeing Steve nearly first thing in the morning.

The first day James comes in so early he is expecting that he won’t see Steve before afternoon, but when he comes in what he finds is a bleary eyed and ruffled Steve lying facedown on the counter.

 

He barely turns his head so that one of his eyes is able to see towards James.

 

„G‘mornin‘,“he mutters and James wants to do all sort of this for a second. He swallows it down.

 

„Hello,“ he says instead. „Why are you here?“

 

„Made Cookies this morning.” Steve says and finally lifts his upper body from the counter, still leaning heavily against it with his hips.

He really is looking very tired, he looks even younger than he actually is.

 

James swallows heavily. He doesn’t know what to say. Desire of things he doesn’t dare to examine too closely wells up inside of him, cloggs his throat and makes him want to run away.

  
  


Later, when everything is fully preparedness for the day, the first morning rush coffees have been handed out and James heard a couple of people compliment the cookies, he thinks of eating one. Secretly, without telling Steve, he could savour it only for himself.

 

He doesn’t.

  


At around 5 Steve comes back from school, just as James is repairing some of the lights in the corner of the shop that have been flickering.

They smile at each other through the room. Steve puts his backpack behind the counter and gets one of the sandwiches from the kitchen. When James is finished with the lights Steve is sitting on their table munching on pastrami and Kraut and there’s tea on the table too. And a cookie.

James sits down and feels weirdly solemnly.

 

He blows the tea, smells cinnamon and apple. Steve sets down his sandwich. Rubs the corner of his mouth with his fingers. Swallows and seems to be taking a big breath.

James starts first.

 

“There’s a lot of things I can’t talk about. Not even to Natasha.” He fists his metal hand in his lap.

“But there’s something - something happening. You made things - me, better. I can’t explain it and maybe I don’t want to either, but it’s like you made my insides that became really dark come outside again and turned them a little brighter.”

He wants to say more, how Steve itself is the brightest sun he’s ever seen, how his soul seems golden, how he wants to wake up next to him, how he wants to hold his hand all the time. How he makes him feel like 16 again, like before he went to war, before he lost his arm and mind and head.

But that’s the things he can’t talk about. Yet.

“My sister used to call me Bucky.” he offers, because that’s all he can give right now and it already makes him feel like he stripped part of his soul.

 

Steve smiles. “Okay, Bucky,” he says. He puts his hand on the table again. “Hold my hand, jerk.” And Bucky does.

 

He also eats the cookie. It’s really fucking great.

 

#

  
  
  



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